


I'm Making War

by SageMasterofSass



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hickies, M/M, Prompt Fill, Stiles gets hit on by a drunk guy that is essentially the entire plot of this fic, jealous!Derek, poor Stiles and his teenage libido
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/pseuds/SageMasterofSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys hunt a witch, Stiles gets a hickie, and Derek punches a guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Making War

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the Teen Wolf fandom so I'm hoping I got the characters right! I'm planning a longer more emotional fic, so this one is just fun and silly. 
> 
> Also, this is dedicated to Shelby because wow, best roommate ever. Seriously. You're awesome.

Stiles is _really uncomfortable._

It’s not even a we-need-to-have-a-talk kind of uncomfortable, but more a full blown prey-being-stared-down-by-a-hungry-predator and Stiles hangs out with fucking w _erewolves_ okay? He stopped feeling like prey ages ago! Sort of. Most of the time. And even when someone (cough, Derek) gets all growly and starts growing fangs, he’s only mildly uncomfortable, and that’s mostly because he’s fucking attracted to that shit and it’s embarrassing to pop a boner whenever someone (Derek, cough) starts flashing their eyes.  Because he knows werewolves can smell shit like that.

This? This isn’t that. This is heart pounding like the rabbit who has fallen into the gaze of the wolf. Or, rather, the gaze of a really drunk guy who looks like he’s thinking about licking Stiles from head to toe. Sloppily.

For a Saturday night, the club they’re in really isn’t all that busy. There’s a thrumming sound of bass that vibrates up through the floor, but out on the patio where Stiles is, the music is all muffled. Normally he would be pretty upbeat about, you know, actually _going out_. But no. He’s here for business, not pleasure. Supernatural business.

The witch he, Derek, Isaac, and Scott were tailing is nowhere to be seen, but the three wolves are literally sniffing the place out, and Stiles is just trying not to get swallowed up by the crowd. Hence, why he’s out on the patio. He’s trying to keep a look out, make sure the witch doesn’t slip out the small gate back here, but it’s a little difficult when he’s feeling hunted.

Honestly, the guy isn’t that bad looking. Swooping, pale blonde hair, dark eyes, fair skin. It’s the fact that he’s drunk off his ass and moving in like Stiles is a ten course meal and he’s a starving man that makes Stiles a little nervous. Those dark eyes are glossed over but intent, his steps staggered slightly but bringing him closer nonetheless. Suddenly, the wall Stiles is backed up against feels like a terrible idea.

True to the whole rabbit metaphor, Stiles can’t seem to move while the man sweeps in, leans his palms against the stone on either side of Stiles’ head. His smile is predatory, but not in the way the eighteen year old is used to. Fuck, you’d think dealing with supernatural shit would mean he’d be perfectly prepared for all the normal stuff life likes to throw at you. But nope, someone shows _real_ interest in him and Stiles’ heart starts pounding in his ears and his throat grows tight. So sue him, it’s not a problem he’s ever really gotten used to, and honestly he was starting to think it never would be. Trust it to crop up in a time when he can’t do anything with it, and with a guy he’d really rather not be very close to right now, good looks or no.

“Hey,” the guy says, and the scent of alcohol rolls off his breath like a tangible thing, making Stiles turn his head desperately to the side to try and avoid gagging in the dude’s face.

“Hi?” he manages in response, voice squeaking just faintly, but it’s a totally manly squeak, honest.

Blondie smiles like Stiles said something funny, his wavering gaze tripping down to Stiles’ mouth, where it rests with undivided attention.

“Fuck, that’s a mouth made for sucking cock.”

Stiles can literally feel his heartbeat ratchet up a notch as his lips fall open, a strangled kind of “Uh…” the only thing he can think to say. By this point he’s pressing himself desperately back against the wall, stone digging into his back through his thin shirt. He presses his fingers down flat against it well, to stop them from shaking.  Fuck, he can face down goddamn alphas, he should be able to handle being hit on by some drunk stranger, right?

“That’s um,” he says, licking his lips, and regrets it immediately with the way Blondie’s expression goes hungry at the sight of his tongue. Fuck. Okay, try again. “That’s really inappropriate and I’m really, really not interested. So, uh, if you could um? Back off a little?”

Rather than moving away, Blondie sways in closer, gaze skittering down from Stiles mouth to his throat and the way it’s arched as he tries to put space between them, jaw turned to the side and tilted up. If he were with a wolf he knows the position would be a sign of submission, but here and now he just wants to get Blondie’s toxic fucking breath out of his nose before he gets drunk off the fumes alone.

“Damn,” the guy sighs, “look so fucking good. Bet you bruise good too, like a peach.”

Stiles is compiling some kind of response to that, a good one too that may or may not involve him ducking away and fleeing, when he catches sight of movement at the doorway between the club and patio. Derek’s eyebrows of doom are firmly lowered, and he’s glowering at Stiles like he’s the one belligerently trapping someone against a wall, and Stiles makes a face that he hopes shows just how desperate he is over here because goddamnit asshole _come help me._

Derek doesn’t come help, and Blondie is still muttering things that Stiles would really, really not like to think about, so he rolls his eyes and mutters a “Give me a hand here!” under his breath. Even without the ambient noise of the club leaking outside he knows Derek’s super amazing awesome werewolf ears will pick it up (and yes, he does say that out loud thank you very much, you should _see_ the way all the wolves roll their eyes at once, it’s a beautiful thing).

The eyebrows of doom arch up, a questioning look, and if Derek is out here playing facial charades than Stiles can probably assume they’ve lost the witch. Damn. He opens his mouth to ask the alpha to haul Blondie off somewhere, or maybe kindly ask him to step the fuck off, but the drunk guy chooses that exact moment to lean in and attach his lips to the pale stretch of skin he’d been eyeing earlier, just over Stiles’ pulse point in his neck.

Stiles may or may not yelp, but hey Blondie is using _teeth_ okay, and his tongue is all over the place and there’s fucking slobber and its sending shivers down Stiles’ spine but not in a good way.

This is probably why he blurts, “Fucking punch him or something!” before he can really think it through.

It’s not that he really thinks Derek will punch the guy, Derek has never taken him that literally before, but he knows better than to try and boss the alpha around. It usually takes a good ten minutes of logical arguing before he can get Derek to even _consider_ agreeing to something, much less follow a direct command from Stiles.

For some reason, Derek does punch Blondie.

Right in the jaw, with a loud crack that Stiles knows (from experience) means that at least one bone has been broken. He can’t help himself from wincing a little as the guy crumples to floor without a sound. Yeah, he’s not going to be getting up for a while, but really that’s not Stiles’ problem and he’d just like to get the hell out of Dodge right now if that’s at all possible.

His hands are still shaking as he slides across the wall away from the prone body, and consequently right into Derek’s Chest, Abs, and Pecs of Literal Steel (patent pending).

“What the _fuck_ where you doing?”

Stiles glances up at Derek’s angry expression, down again at Blondie’s unconscious form, and tries to will his racing heart beat to slow. Jesus.

“He kind of, um, came on to me?”

The eyebrows of doom are back, oh joy.

“And you didn’t think to get away from him?” Derek practically growls, and it’s that sound that knocks Stiles out of his stupor and straight in righteous anger.

“Well excuse me if I didn’t know how to deal with it!” he snaps, gaze narrowing in on the alpha, Blondie forgotten at their feet. It’s a disturbing thought that this isn’t the first time they’ve argued over top of a body before. “I’ve never had someone hit on me like that, okay?” Not since the gay club incident anyways, and he didn’t really handle himself very well then either. “I panicked! I’m sure you get drunk people throwing themselves at you left and right, but this was a first for me and I literally had no idea what to do.”

“You tell them no, you push them away, and you don’t let them fucking corner you.”

“Awesome!” Stiles says, nearly shouts, and throws his arms in the air for emphasis. “That’s just awesome, I now know what to do the next time it never happens! Now get off my case man, it’s fine, no harm done.”

Derek looks like he really, really wants to argue with that but he just glares Stiles down instead. It’s a good thing Stiles has had years of practice at this already, because a weaker man would most certainly break under the wrath of those green-but-not-quite-damnit-what-color-even-is-that eyes. Eventually, the alpha lets out a huff.

“You reek of him,” he says, less angry but still low and in the growly zone. It does bad, bad things to Stiles and he has to swallow hard to stop himself from responding to it, like climbing Derek like a tree or shoving his hands down those impossibly, sinfully tight jeans (seriously, does Derek buy all his pants two sizes too small? What the actual fuck).

“Nothing a little pack puppy pile can’t fix,” Stiles responds, words way more solid than he feels. Damn, he was supposed to be angry here! Curse you teenage hormones.

Too warm fingers grip Stiles’ chin before he can see them coming, tipping it back and to the side, and Derek’s gaze is intent on his throat. For a moment he thinks Derek is insisting on a little submission from him which, hey, yeah, he’s always happy to give, in more ways than one, but the low growl in the alpha’s throat isn’t typical for this kind of thing. And then those fingers drag down his skin, eliciting more shivers along Stiles’ spine (the good kind this time) and press on a spot that damn near makes his knees go weak.

“He marked you.”

Stiles swallows hard, can hear his blood rushing in his ears, but Derek is standing really _really_ close to him and the hand on his throat is doing nothing to stop all that blood from flowing South. Because it is. Quickly.

“That’s-” he tries, voice infinitely more strangled now, and he has to bite back a moan when Derek presses more firmly on what he now assumes is a hickie that Blondie left behind. “That’s, uh…there’s not a whole lot I can do about that?” The last word lilts up into a question, and he has a brief second to see Derek’s eyes flicker up to his before the older man is leaning in and sealing his mouth over the spot his fingers had been.

“Oh, oh god.” Stiles arches his neck back on instinct, giving Derek more room to work, and his hands flail briefly before he settles them on the alpha’s shoulders and digs his nails in on a small groan.

Derek’s lips and teeth and tongue are nothing like Blondie’s. He’s hot, hotter than Stiles’ normal human temperature, and his touch is like a brand. There’s nothing sloppy or uncoordinated about the way he bites and sucks and works his mark into Stiles’ skin, teeth precise but harsh, and the noise Stiles makes when he feels Derek’s fangs elongate is some mix between a whimper and a keen.

“ _Derek,_ ” he pants, shaking fingers knotting in dark hair to try and hold the alpha close, keep him there breathing heavily against bruised, sensitive skin, drawing his tongue along it like he wants to _taste_ his claim on Stiles. Fuck, he’s hard in his jeans and he’s pretty sure Derek slid his thigh between his so that he could essentially hump it, and normally that might actually embarrass him but right now he has literally no shame. None. His hips move in short, staccato bursts and he warbles out half-moans half-words when Derek drags his stubble up the arch of Stiles’ neck before sealing his lips over a new spot on the opposite side.

He’s an eighteen year old virgin being necked by a hot older werewolf and he’s totally going to cream his pants.

Abruptly, so abruptly that Stiles might let out a little whine of protest, Derek pulls away, putting way too much space between their bodies and leaving the human to stumble back against the wall. He hadn’t even noticed Derek’s hands on his lower back holding him up, but now without them he finds himself practically unable to stand.

Derek, the bastard, looks fucking smug.

Stiles tries to catch his breath and will the world to stop spinning and his cock to stop throbbing because no, down boy, we’re in public. Even if that was fucking awesome. And technically they’re kind of alone out on the patio. And it’s a club, worse things have happened here. Why did they stop again?

He must have said most of that out loud because Derek gives a small huff that’s probably as close to laughter as he’ll ever get.

“You smell like me now, my job’s done.”

Stiles stares at him incredulously for several long moments, mouth flapping, trying to figure out if Derek is just fucking with him, if he’s just that damn cruel, or if he’s just dense instead (nobody is that dense, Stiles was _humping his fucking leg_ ). Finally he manages to splutter, “Your job is most certainly not done!”

An honest to god actual smile curls at the corner of Derek’s mouth, and his eyes sweep down Stiles’ body in a way that makes him flush anew. It lingers appreciatively on his throat, and Stiles fights the urge to reach up and stroke the throbbing skin there, mostly because if he pressed hard enough he’s positive he’d come but also because he doesn’t want to give Derek the satisfaction. He juts his chin out instead, displaying whatever mass of bruises now adorn him, and raises an eyebrow when Derek’s gaze finally meets his own again.

“No,” the werewolf drawls after more extreme UST staring, “I suppose it’s not.”

Scott and Isaac choose that moment to come bursting out onto the patio, a third man squished between their bodies and looking decidedly unhappy about it.

“Hey guys, we caught the witch!” Scott announces happily, and then he and Isaac both stop, their heads cocked to the side like the adorable fucking puppies they are. Almost simultaneously their noses wrinkle with disgust. It’s actually kind of impressive. It’s also enough to kill Stiles’ boner…mostly.

“That’s so gross,” Isaac says, and Scott just makes a vague kind of retching noise, refusing to look anywhere near Stiles.

The witch, at least that’s who Stiles is assuming the third guy is, just looks between Derek and Stiles with a small curl of his lip. “Ugh,” he says, “bestiality.”

Stiles can’t help the surprised laugh that springs from him at the same time that Derek and Isaac start growling and Scott just looks vaguely horrified. “Stiles would never!” he squawks, and seriously, Scott is the best best friend ever.

Stepping carefully around Blondie’s still limp body (he might actually need to send the guy a fruit basket, this night is going to fuel _so_ many wet dreams), Stiles approaches Scott and places a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I think that one might have gone over your head there, buddy.”

Glancing back at Derek sends a little shudder through Stiles, more from memory than anything Derek is doing now, but if Stiles has his way, and oh boy is he going to, they’re most certainly not done here. In the meantime however, he turns back to their captive and smiles gleefully. “Let’s get this one home then! I’m sure Deaton’s come up with some fun new not actually torture techniques.”

The witch suddenly looks like he might lose his lunch.


End file.
